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Canadian Pacific Hotels 


Hotel Vancouver, Vancouver, B.C. 

The largest hotel on the North Pacific Coast, overlooking 
the Strait of Georgia, and serving equally the business man and 
the tourist. Situated in the heart of the shopping district of 
Vancouver. Golf, motoring, fishing, hunting, bathing, steamer 
excursions. Open all year. European plan. Y2 mile from 

Empress Hotel, Victoria, B.C. 

A luxurious hotel in this Garden City of the Pacific Coast. 
An equable climate has made Victoria a favorite summer and 
winter resort. Motoring, yachting, sea and stream fishing, shooting 
and all-year golf. Open all year. European plan. Facing wharf. 


Hotel Sicamous, Sicamous, B.C. 

Junction for the orchard districts of the Okanagan Valley, and stop-over point 
for those who wish to see both canyons and mountains by dayUght. Lake 
Shuswap district offers good boating, and excellent trout fishing and hunting in season. 
Open all year. American plan. At station. Altitude 1146 feet. 

Glacier House, Glacier, B.C. 

In the heart of the Selkirks. Splendid Alpine climbing and glacier-exploring, 
driving, riding and hiking. Open June 15th to September 15th. American plan. 
1 miles from station. Altitude 4086 feet. 

Emerald Lake Chalet, near Field, B.C. 

A charming Chalet hotel situated at the foot of Mount Burgess, amidst the 
picturesque Alpine scenery of the Yoho National Park. Roads and trails to the 
Burgess Pass, Yoho Valley, etc. Boating and fishing. Open June 15th to September 
15th. American plan. 7 miles from station. Altitude 4262 feet. 

Chateau Lake Louise, Lake Louise, Alberta 

A wonderful hotel facing an exquisite Alpine Lake in Rocky Mountains National 
Park. Alpine climbing with Swiss Guides, pony trips or walks to Lakes in the Clouds, 
Saddleback, etc., drives or motoring to Moraine Lake, boating, fishing. Open June 
1st to September 30th. European plan. 3J2 miles from station by motor railway. 
Altitude 5670 feet. 

Banff Springs Hotel, Banff, Alberta 

A magnificent hotel in the heart of Rocky Mountains National Park, backed by 
three splendid mountain ranges. Alpine climbing, motoring and drives on good 
roads, bathing, hot sulphur springs, golf, tennis, fishing, boating and riding. Open 
May 15th to September 30th. European plan. 132 miles from station. Altitude 
4625 feet. 

Hotel Palliser, Calgary, Alberta 

A handsome hotel of metropolitan standard, in this prosperous city of Southern 
Alberta. Suited equally to the business man and the tourist en route to or from the 
Canadian Pacific Rockies. Good golfing and motoring. Open all year. European 
plan. At station. 

Royal Alexandra Hotel, Winnipeg, Manitoba 

A popular hotel in the largest city of Western Canada, appealing to those who 
wish to break their trans-continental journey. The centre of Winnipeg's social life. 
Good golfing and motoring. Open all year. European plan. At station. 


Place Viger Hotel, A charming hotel in Canada's largest city. Open 

Montreal, Que. all year. 

Cha tea u Fron tenac, A metropolitan hotel in the most historic city of North 

Quebec, Que. America. Open all year. 

McAdam Hotel, A commercial and sportsman's hotel. Open all year. 

McAdam, N.B. <pj^g social centre of Canada's most fashionable sea- 

The Algonquin, shore summer resort. Open June 30th to September 

St. Andrews, N.B. 8th. 


Cameron Lake, B.C. Cameron Lake Chalet 

Strathcona Lodge, B.C. Strathcona Lodge 

Penticton, B.C. Hotel Incoia 

Lake Windermere, B.C. Lake Windermere Camp 

Field, B.C. Yoho Valley Camp 

Hector, B.C. Lake O'Hara Camp 

Hector, B.C. Wapta Camp 

Moraine Lake, Alta. Moraine Lake Camp 

Kentville, N.S. Cornwallis Inn 

Digby, N.S. The Pines 

Lake Windermere, lying in the broad and beautiful valley that 
separates the Rockies and the Selkirks, is one of the newer tourist 
regions of the Canadian Pacific Rockies. Not that it is without fame, 
for it is the source of the mighty Columbia River, the most important 
waterway that flows into the north Pacific. Nor is it without history, 
for the explorer David Thompson discovered it as long ago as 1807, 
and established a trading post at Kootenai House. But although its 
charm has always been known to the "old timers" who have pioneered 
in this lovely valley, it is only since the construction of a railway a 
few years ago that the outside world has taken any real notice of it. 

This railway is a branch that connects Golden on the main line 
of the Canadian Pacific with Cranbrook on the Crow's Nest line. To 
this can now be added a fine highway, the Banff -Windermere road, 
completed in 1922 by the Canadian government. The road is a magni- 
ficent one taking the traveller over 1 00 miles of the most spectacular 
mountain scenery of the continent. It can be travelled either by horse 
or by automobile, for it is in first class condition for motor traffic; and 
in the latter connection, it may be added that it is a section of the 
"Grand Circle Tour" through Spokane and Portland to California. 

To afford increased facilities for the accommodation of the increas- 
ing number of tourists at Lake Windermere in the Canadian Pacific 
Rockies, an attractive bungalow cabin camp on the shore of the lake 
has been constructed and has proved exceedingly popular. It will be 
of)ened for the season of 1923 on June I 5th. Two camps and a rest- 
house will also be opened this year at intermediate points on the 
Banff -Windermere road. 

Lake Windermere Camp consists of twenty-two rustic-type bunga- 
low cabins for living purposes, with a central club house for dining, dan- 
cing and social recreation. Each cabin contains two single military cots. 

The Camp is OF)erated by the Invermere Hotel Company, Lake 

Windermere, B.C., to whom requests for reservations should be made 
Rates (American plan) are $5.50 per day or $35.00 a week. 

The site of the Camp lies along a natural terrace directly over- 
looking and commanding a magnificent view of Lake Windermere, 
about one mile from the railway station of the same name. Transfer 
is made by means of automobiles, which meet all trains. For railway 
connections at Golden or Cranbrook, see Canadian Pacific Summer 
Service Time-table folders. 

The new Banff -Wmdermere road is the last link in the "Grand 
Circle Tour ' through the mountains. From Banff the route is at first 
the road to Lake Louise, but at Castle (about 20 miles before reaching 
Lake Louise) it leaves this road arid takes a more southerly course, 
crossing the Bow and rising to the Vermilion Pass (altitude 5,264 feet). 
Here it enters Kootenay Park. Here Storm Mountain Rest House, 
which commands a magnificent view of Castle Mountain, will serve 
luncheons. From Marble Canyon, a remarkable fissure three hundred 
feet deep, there is a trail to the curious Ochre beds. The road then 
follows the Vermilion River to its junction with the Kootenay River. 
Vermilion River Camp will afford shelter for the night in teepees 
with wooden floors, with a central log-cabin community house. 

Crossing the Kootenay River, the road follows through a beautiful 
avenue through virgin forest, then ascends the Sinclair Pass between 
the Briscoe and Stanford Ranges. Turning westerly again, it reaches 
Sinclair Hot Springs, long famous for their radium qualities. 

Sinclair Hot Springs Camp, consisting of a club house and khaki 
tents with wooden floors, will form a convenient restmg place. 

Emerging through the gap of Sinclair Canyon, the road meets the 
Columbia River about 9 miles north of Lake Windermere. 

The Banff- Windermere road will open for motor traffic in 1923 on 
June 30th. 

Printed in Canada. 1923. 

Motoring in the Canadian Pacific Rocl^ies. 

Between the main line of the Rockies and the subsidiary but 
equally spectacular Selkirk Range lies a long and beautiful valley 
traversed by two rivers, the Columbia and the Kootenay, which event- 
ually, after curious turns and twists, unite their streams far to the south. 
In this valley, half way between Golden on the main line of the Canadian 
Pacific Railway and Cranbrook on the Crow's Nest Branch, lies Lake 
Windermere, a warm-water lake over ten miles in length and from one 
to three miles in breadth. The lake is surrounded by bench land, 
much of which has recently been transformed by irrigation into good 
farm land; behind the benches are the foothills, and then the towering, 
jagged mountains typical of this region. 

Through a gap such as that of Horse Thief Creek, one sees the 
peaks capped by eternal snow, and with the aid of auto and pony one 
can drive and ride on the same day from this fertile summerland to 
the foot of immense glaciers. Radiating from the lake into the sur- 
rounding mountains are creeks which have carved out canyons for 
themselves under rocky precipices, and along these canyons are moun- 
tain roads and trails made to the silver and lead mines of the Selkirks, 
or for the hunter and tourist over the passes of the Rockies. Besides 
Sinclair Hot Springs, there are Radium Hot Springs, easy of access 
from the south. 

The peninsula on which Lake Windermere Camp has been located 
is the site of the trading post named Kootenai House, established by 
the fur trader and explorer David Thompson in 1807. A Memorial 
Fort built of huge logs with palisade and bastions was opened last year, 
and serves as a Recreation Hall and Indian Museum. 

The privileges of the Golf Club at Lake Windermere are available 
to guests of the Camp on payment of a small fee. Mountain ponies 
of local breed are available for riding the trails, and the neighboring 
village of Invermere has automobiles for the excellent roads of the 
valley. In several of the creeks and smaller lakes within easy reach. 

good trout fishing in season may be had. The water of Lake Winder- 
mere itself is too warm for trout, though it contains countless squaw 
fish, many of large size. 

Among the many expeditions to be recommended are those up 
Toby Creek, Sinclair Canyon and Horse Thief Creek. Nine miles up 
Toby Canyon. Toby Creek is spanned by a spectacular bridge three 
hundred feet above the bed of the stream, uniting roads on either side, 
so that a highly interesting round trip automobile ride of eighteen 
miles can be made from Lake Windermere Camp. Beyond the bridge 
the road leads in the direction of Earl Grey Pass or Wells Pass to Koot- 
enay Lake, with the well-known silver-lead Paradise Mine at an ele- 
vation of 8.000 feet on the right. 

Horse Thief Creek is an easy gateway to very spectacular glacier 
country. One can drive by auto for eighteen miles, after which there 
is a pony trail leading direct up towards Horse Thief Creek, with a 
new trail to the wonderful Lake of the Hanging Glaciers. Or one can 
branch up Mackenzie Creek to Iron Cap, where on a ridge at an ele- 
vation of 10.000 feet one has a magnificent panorama of 100 miles of 
snow-clad peaks. Such trips, of course, imply the necessity of camping 
out for a night or two. 

For bathing and boating the waters of Lake Windermere are ideal. 
The summer temperature averages about 68 degrees, and the water is 
crystal clear. There are several islands on the Lake, each tempting 
the explorer. The Columbia River itself is full of charm, winding 
through a maze of forest at the base of the mountains. 

Lake Windermere is an outfitting centre for hunting goat, bear, 
and deer on the slopes of the Selkirks, and goat. Mountain sheep, moose, 
bear and deer in the famous hunting grounds of the Kootenay Valley 
There is excellent duck shooting in season along the flats of the Columbia 
Valley and partridge are plentiful in the tributary canyons 

Page Two 




>^vP A R K V 







Motorin g in the Canadian Pacific Rockies 

■■M New Banff -Windermere road A Part of the 6rand Circle four to California 
mxi ^lorl route from Winnipeg loBrifish Columbia. 
— =— i'/A^/- Momobile routes, 
Canadian Pacific Pailiyajf. 

■.CAL£ or MILES 




» 30 



Page Three 

The Camp 

The train from Golden, on the main line of 
the C.P.R., swings along southward through 
the warm summer day. The shades are 
drawn, the windows are open; it is cool in the 
coaches. Ecstatic scents of balsam and pine 
come in on the flutter of breeze made by the 
train's passage. Yellow grasshoppers ricochet, 
and then click in air, like flung castanets 
among the trees and scrub in the sun-glow. 
Twists of the Columbia River reflect the azure 
of sky and the high white clouds that are like 
whipped cream. A thousand discs of light 
twinkle on the flowing ripples. 

To left and right stretch the benchlands, 
yellow as gold-dust, in quaint shapes, as 
though some giant child had been at play on 
the river's banks making sand-castles. 
Beyond the benches the slopes are dotted — 
to complete the resemblance to child's play, 
a giant child's play — with Noah's Ark trees. 
Behind and above these slopes and rolls 
(where horses and cattle wander in bunches 
and small herds — tiny moving spots in dis- 
tance) the timber thickens. Great forests 
waver along, dozmg m the sun. And above 
them the sheer peaks of the mountains stab 
upward into a sky that shimmers like a blue 
Chinese silk, to east the ancient Rockies, to 
west the ancient Selkirks, with rock-slide and 
silver thread of falling creek and high wedge 
of snow and glacier. 

The conductor strolls through the car 
announcing; "The next stop is Lake Winder- 
mere. " 

The lake was called Windermere after the 
Windermere of the English Lake District by 
an English traveller. The little picturesque 
settlement on its east shore was called 
Windermere after the lake. We may. if we 
be purists, regret the smack of tautology in 
the name of this alighting place. It is really 
(the purists are right, of course) as if we said: 
"Lake Winderlake," or "Mere Windermere." 
But the place is the thing. 

The train slows down. We are there. We 
alight and see the automobiles drawn up at 
the depot end: the democrats, with their two 
horses, in the Western fashion, harnessed far 
apart with broad whiffle-trees; the high-sad- 

dled cayuses turnmg and wheeling. Having 
surrendered our baggage-checks to the auto- 
mobile driver, we have a breathing spell in 
which to gaze around and become acquainted 
with the atmosphere of the place of our jour- 
ney's end. A small board, atop a pole to one 
side of the space left void for motors and rigs 
to back up at the depot, catches our eye and 
provides its thrill. We realise that this is not 
only our journey's end, that it is also a 
Jumping-Off Place. The legend atop the pole 
reads thus: 


Guide and Outfitter 
for Big Game 
Hunting Parties 
Apply Lake Windermere Camp 

Then the driver of the car is at our side to 
inform us; "All set. Your baggage is in this 
car here." He swings on board and we are 
off on the last little lap, with a resonant purr 
up-hill round the edges of a bench. A twist or 
two across the dusty plateau above, past a 
scattering of trig bungalows, noting a store 
where Kodak films may be purchased, and 
another with Indian gauntlets on view, and 
the office of the Irrigated Land Company, and 
then we swing on to the Camp. Southwards 
across the plateau we see the picturesque log 
cabin erected as a memorial to David Thomp- 
son, astronomer, geographer, explorer, who 
built a fort here over a century ago. A few 
miles north, near Wilmer, may (by the way) 
be seen the remains of his second fort, which 
he called Kootenai House, on another bench 
to which he removed on the advice of the 
Kootenay Indians, who thought it a better 
location for his needs. 

We seem far enough from big game here, 
at the central building of Lake Windermere 
Camp, with the piano notes tinkling out to 
meet us. although the walls within are decor- 
ated with heads of moose and goat and elk 
and mule-deer. On the tables are vases of 
sweet peas. The hardwood floor invites the 
feet of dancers after the dinner is over and the 
amiable waitresses have cleared away the 
empty platters. 

Old-timers in the valley tell of the old days 
with a distant gaze in their eyes. 

"When one got off the train at Golden," 
said one to this chronicler, "it was surely 
good. There was no railway down this valley 
then, even running twice weekly, just the 
little old river steamer; and she came puff-puff 
slowly up the Columbia. When she pulled out 
from the landing, and Golden was left behind, 
it was as if a door was shut. Time didn't 
matter up here. The news we wanted wasn't 
whether Queen Victoria was still alive, but 
how Billy So-and-So was making out washing 
gold on Findlay Creek, and how Jack So-and- 
So was making out with his trial attempt of 
potatoes round his ranch. There were no 
irrigated farms then, raising raspberries and 
currants, just the stock ranches, and the 
round-ups, and the gold-washing on the creek 
bars. We used to go up to the Fairmont 
Springs, or the Sinclair Canyon Springs, and 
have our natural hot bath; and we prospected 
away up to the rock tops and the glaciers, 
and lost track of the day of the week. Great 

They are great days still. Nothing can 
change the contours of the mountains, the 
spreading peace of lake and valley. 

The air of that valley — the Happy Valley, 
as the settlers call their realm — is a tonic. 
You will do justice to the meals served in that 
building with the hardwood floor, and the 
broad veranda like a steamer's promenade 
deck. Below the hotel proper (or this building 
where guests eat and dance and write letters), 
in a little grove of odorous spruce trees, 
are two dozen or so cabins, each containing 
two single military cots, and each far enough 
away from its neighbour to allow of the 
"campers " not being disturbed by a neigh- 
bour's song over ablutions. 

Little red squirrels flirt up and down the 
tree stems or curvet ahead of us, as we come 
and go, like playful kittens; and all day, 
framed in the windows of the cabins, are the 
Rockies, changing from dawn to dusk as the 
world rolls round. Here there is less ostenta- 
tion that at some other hotels of the wilds. 
The children may romp in overalls without a 
breach of les convenances. It is not essential 
to dress for dinner if one returns late from an 
expedition. The resonant clump of spiked 
climbing boots does not win a glance of dis- 
approval. An air of dolce Jar nienle is here. 

Page Four 

The lake water laps on the shingle in the little 
coves below the cabins, and makes all day a 
changing delight for the eyes, of translucent 
gold and green and blue, with reflection of 
sky and water-filtered glow of pebbles. The 
strange, laughing note you hear, waking at 
morning, is of the loon. It recalls to mind 
Chief Salatha's reply to the priest who had 
told him of heaven. Said Chief Salatha (as 
narrated by Warburton Pike in one of his 
volumes) : 

"My father, you have spoken well: you 
have told me that heaven is very beautiful: 
tell me one thing more. Is it more beautiful 
than the country of the musk-ox in summer, 
when sometimes the mist blows over the 
lakes, and sometimes the water is blue, and 
the loons cry very often?" 
That other bird-voice, that rushing chatter, 
is of the kingfisher. You may sit in the porch 
of your cabin and listen to these sounds, at 
ease all day, observe for delectation how the 
friendly chipmunk sits on his little haunches 
to nibble a lunch held daintily between his 
forepaws, and utterly forget the roll-top desk, 
the overhead roar of Elevated, the underfoot 
rumble of Subway. At night, from some rushy 
bay, the sleepy piping of wild duck is fit 
lullaby. At morning you waken to see the 
reflected light of the lake ripples adrift on the 
wooden ceiling of your cabin. It is good to be 
there, and rest. 

But the day comes when it is not enough to 
rest. The serene peaks, on either hand, in 
their quiet way, invite. The long quiet vista 
of the valley, north and south, is not only to 
be lazily gazed upon. That lake, by the way, 
IS very pleasant to bathe in, probably because 
of the presence of hot springs in it. It does 
not give the shock of glacier-fed waters, even 
though glaciers may be seen, from the hotel 
veranda, shining on the Selkirk wall. Its 
summer temperature averages about 68°. 
.At any rate the day comes when, the morning 
dip and breakfast over, it seems imperative to 
go out and see all the surrounding beauty 
more closely; and for the convenience of 
guests the hotel people have devised a 
schedule of tours, set in order (as perhaps the 
simplest method) according to mileage. 

Near crossings where a wrong turning 
might be taken, motor routes are indicated 

(in the manner familiar to motorists) by a 
letter R or L. announcing a turn to right or 
left, painted on a tree in the colour given to 
the roads in question; and a bai of colour on 
a tree (in the usual way) indicates that those 
who are travelling upon the route of that 
colour should keep straight on. 

How to tell of these tours? The best way, 
perhaps, is somewhat after the manner or 
that great French Impressionist, Claude 
Monet, who made a gospel of what every 
painter knows — that no scene is the same at 
dawn as an hour later, at morning as at noon, 
that afternoon has innumerable moods, and 
that twilight is one exquisite stream of slow 
tones. The world rolls round. The light 
changes. It is a theory that nowhere could 
be better proved than here, looking out on 
the mutability of these immutable Rockies 
and Selkirks. Each individual journey, even 
if one were to go out upon the same route 
daily all the year round, would have its own 
daily story. The incidents vary. Light and 
weather and the temperament or mood of the 
beholder are all party to the question of how 
best to tell the tale of these expeditions. This 
way, then, seems best: to base these notes 
upon an actual outing taken over each route, 
the aim being to convey, to those who intend 
to visit these scenes, some impression of the 
neighbourhood in the visitors' season, the 
summer days. 



Route No. 1. — To indermere, returning 
via Back Road. Return distance: 18 
miles. Indicated in Red and Blue. 
The road to Windermere is easy to travel 
almost as a road over the commons of 
England in a well-sprung car. A quick purr 
down the street of Athelmer, a low hum 
across the bridge over the Columbia, and then 
we mount, by a series of corkscrews, upward 
to the eastern bench top. Here we meet the 
dark Shuswap Indians driving their hay- 
wagons to town. These are, comparatively, 
recent immigrants to the valley. The centre 
of their tribal home is north and west, by 
Adams Lake and Shuswap Lake; but once. 

on their wanderings, coming into this section, 
they fell so deeply in love with it that they 
chose to remain — as has many a white man 
since, finding this glamorous region (to filch 
a phrase from Hergesheimer's Habana beck) 
"nearer the heart than home." 

The other Indian inhabitants, the Koote- 
nays. being willing that they should stay, 
when reserves were allocated to the native 
population these Shuswaps, under the old 
chief Kinbasket, had measured off for them a 
stretch to left of the road. The little wooden 
steeple of their mission church stands north, 
a slim finger, with the foothills for background. 
They have large enclosed tracts of meadow 
and the water trickles, fertilising, in their 
irrigating ditches. They have learnt irriga- 
tion, and all they require now to be told in 
agriculture is of the rotation of crops. Both 
the women, in their gay-coloured shawls and 
bright bandanas, and the men. in their big 
Stetsons and deerskin moccasins, and hv 
reason of their casual way of wearing even 
the storekeepers' reach-me-down garments, 
give a touch of barbaric colour as they pass 
by. A very typical sight is of the buck in the 
democrat, squaw by his side, papoose waving 
podgy palm, colt trotting along beside the 
driven mare. 

The road turns south, passes the cluster of 
bungalow houses of Windermere (and Stod- 
dart's Hotel, enlarged of recent years, but 
with the little old original haunt of the early 
stockmen still standing), gives a long view of 
the lake, the slumbering yellow benches, the 
foothills, the jagged perspective of the peaks 
Here and there, upon the stem of a stately 
pine, you may see. as well as the bar of red to 
indicate this route Number One, a bar of 
blue, this stretch being also Blue Trail. That 
is a name that means much to touring motor- 
ists. The Blue Trail! It is the highway to 
Los Angeles in California. For those who 
would "See America First " it will yearly 
become a more desirable road. From Calgary 
a car may start, go south by MacLeod and 
on to the Glacier National Park, and on 
again through the gorges of Idaho to the 
Yellowstone Park, thence to Utah and Salt 
Lake City, on again to the Grand Canyon of 
the Colorado, on to Pasadena, to the old 

Page Five 

California Missions, through Oaklcind, turn 
north, "take in" Crater Lake, the beauties of 
the Lower Columbia, the Round-Up show at 
Pendleton (if the trip be well timed), and by 
Spokane and Cranbrook spin back here, to 
pass on north a little way, and halt at Radium 
Springs for a bath! 

"That Route I an old-timer on the hotel 
veranda remarks, "is what 1 call a lady-like 

It is designed for those who would see, 
with no fatigue, the contours of the valley 
run gently through the health-giving odour 
of the balsam. It provides a Western version 
of what, in the east, is called "carriage 
exercise," and is to be recommended to 
Grandad with the gout or Grandma desiring 
a little refreshing and none too strenuous 

Route No. 2. — To Toby CreekCanyon, cross- 
ing high level bridge, returning via 
Wilmer. Return distance, 20 miles. 
Indicated in Red. 

There are folks in the valley who try less to 
dissuade the visitor from going out upon this 
route than to give him or her a thrill of dread 
before starting. Rest content. The driver 
of the auto has no more urgent desire than 
any of those he carries to hasten the day of 
matching the glories of the Promised Land 
with those of the Happy Valley. Let not an 
excess of timidity aroused by any such com- 
ments, on voicing your intention to go and 
see the Toby Creek Canyon, cause you to 
retract and so miss a remarkable spectacle 
not only of Manitou's handiwork but of 
man's. There are th:se who tell terrible 
tales, to the newly-arrived in London and 
New York, of the crossings of Broadway and 
the Strand. 

The road runs west from the camp, crosses 
several irrigation ditches, laterals of the main 
flume. On either hand the discs of the birches, 
in a way they have, twiddle in the thin wind 
that scarcely wavers the fir tops Their silver 
stems streak the foreground. The foothills 
draw closer, detail of forest and gulch there 
growing more clear. Silver threads down the 
further Selkirks show as rushing torrents. 

Beyond the irrigation lands a foal, at sound 
of the car, crashes through the bush to seek 
the assurance of a glossy mare, for here we 
are on range land Suddenly, between the 
trees to right, we look down and see, far 
below, in a gulch, a river rushing along with 
white frill after frill of rapids. But this is only 
the beginning of Toby Creek Canyon. We 
leave that glimpse and run on among the 
mauve fire-weed, the blue clumps of Michael- 
mas daisies, these rustling discs of the birches, 
yellow-green against the darker green of the 
spruce. Then, mounting higher, we greet the 
tamaracks, stately poles of a hundred feet and 
more; and a current of air sighs down the 
funnel of this gulch. 

Then back we twist to the canyon, half way 
up it, looking down on the compressed rush 
of waters, if not with the terror foretold by 
the scare-mongers, surely with awe; looking 
up also at the red crag in the face of which 
this road was blasted, with a pride in the skill 
of man — engineer. On the homeward journey 
upon the opposite bank we shall have even 

better opportunity to admire that. For the 
moment we crane over the edge from the 
motor and have confidence in the driver. The 
confidence is well placed, we consider, as we 
turn carefully on to the high, short bridge 
across the chasm and survey, looking back, 
the road by which we have come. What a 
short bridge for so deep a gulch! It is a 
child's stone's throw from bank to bank, but 
the canon below is three hundred feet in 
depth. That road was begun by a man hang- 
ing at a rope's end over the south cliff. He 
chiselled a hole there into which he cemented 
a staple with an eye at its end. The next task 
was the running of a cable through that eye. 
Then a bucket was affixed to the cable, and 
no longer had he to be slung over the precipice 
daily. From the opposite bank, the north 
bank, he was pulley-hauled to and fro over 
the chasm, in his bucket; and in the bucket 
he picked into the sheer cliff, making a place 
for a dynamite charge. That was the genesis 
of this shelf running along the south wall of 
Toby Creek Canyon — a road really as safe as 
Broadway, or the Strand. Yet turning back 
toward Wilmer, on the north bank, we realise 
why some folks, before we started, tried to 
make our flesh creep regarding Automobile 
Route No. 2. But doing it is not so bad as 
looking at it, or imagming upon it. To con- 
sider that shelf-road from the opposite bank 
is to realise, as well as its dizziness, its rocky 

This is but one of these wonderful mountain 
roads that carry the car into the wilds. Up 
stream from the bridge can be seen, three 
hundred feet below, whole rafts of fallen trees, 
like jig-saw puzzles atilt on the rocks of the 
ravine, trees cast down in the high peaks by 
avalanche or rock-slide. The memory of them, 
with all they tell of the wild and Old Nature, at 
her slow deliberate work, is still in our minds 
when we come back to alfalfa fields, the chirr 
of reaping machines, the little whisper of 
water running in the irrigation ditches of the 
settlers. On one side is the wild; the bench- 
grass, the sage-brush; on the other are the big 
paddocks of green alfalfa and the bungalow 
homes with flower-bordered walks and green 
lawns, and a sprayer spraying rainbows in 
the sun. 

But the main matters of the day are that 
great crack in the world, the frilled waters in 
its depth, the short, high bridge spanning the 
chasm, securely resting from bank to bank 
above the tumult, the fallen trees atilt on the 
rocks, the foam, the roar. 

The utilitarian of the party adds: "There's 
power there for a plant to light a dozen 

Route No. 3. — To Sinclair Hot Springs on 
the Banff -Windermere Road. Return 
distance 28 miles. Indicated in Black. 

This route begins in the same direction as 
Route No. 1 ; but instead of turning south at 
the Shuswap Reserve, turns north. It is 
thus partly on the famous Blue Trail. 

An easy road it is to travel on. Mile after 
mile there is no occasion to "grab leather "; 
grade sweeps lightly into grade. The reflected 
light from the wind-screen, tilted a little, bobs 
along from balsam tree to pine tree, flickers 
like a big gold butterfly on a Hoodoo — one of 

these queer pinnacles of yellow earth that 
Nature has seen fit to leave erect here on the 
hillsides — flutters in the foam of a creek, 
dances on through the green woods. 

Before the clear road was constructed, had 
it not been for the creek foaming down to 
indicate a possible pass, this way into the 
recesses of the mountains might easily have 
been missed by anyone who chanced not to 
note the old Indian trail. From a few hundred 
yards down hill there is no evidence of a way 
through. Ages ago the creek now called Sin- 
clair Creek flowed not so deep as now; and 
belike in times of freshet it made a lake of the 
further upland valley. To-day it is just a 
twisting corridor (Red Gates by name) 
through a ridge of mountains. The creek and 
the road fill the gap; and the winding of that 
gap prevents the showing of any further tip 
of hill or notch of sky (suggestive of a peiss) 
until it is actually entered. A memorable 
chasm, with its zig-zag shadow from the 
overhanging cliff I 

It is a pity that in blasting for the contin- 
uation of the road just beyond it an old 
Indian pictograph on the rock wall has been 
almost obliterated. It was not without 
humour. If an old-timer is of the party he 
can help toward giving an impression of what 
these faint ochre stains were like in the days 
of their entirety. The painting showed an 
Indian riding along on a sprightly horse, 
accompanied by his squaw; two dogs followed, 
with tails gaily curled upward. A companion 
picture of the return showed the horses with 
bent necks, jaded, one laden with a deer; and 
behind were the dogs with drooping tails. A 
human record of a strenuous hunting trip for 
little profit! 

The driver, his brown hands lightly on the 
big steering wheel, sits back and tells stories 
of the days before the springs to which we 
journey were all bound round with concrete 
and made into a sophisticated OF>en-air bath 
among the trees. There was old prospector 

So-and-So, Bill . let us say. Someone 

met him one day riding slowly up the old 
trail, pack-horse to heel. The two halted. 
The preliminary salutations having been 
growled, Bill explained whither he was going. 

"I'm just hitting the trail to the springs," 
said he. "Every year I make out to go there 
and have a bath, whether I need it or not." 

The story is not as terrible as it seems at 
first whoop, perhaps. Doubtless Bill had 
other baths in the course of the year, and the 
necessity to which he referred had perhaps 
only to do with the curative qualities of these 

The bath does not steam to announce itself 
hot, although its temperature is 1 08 degrees. 
It is told that a stranger came past one day 
that way. and when disrobing to enjoy a dip 
was approached by one with the manner of an 
ancient resident who said to him: 

"Pardon me, sir, but have you ever dived 
into this pond before?" 

"No." said the stranger. 

"Tfien I must warn you that it is very cold, 
being fed by that there glacial stream. Pre- 
pare yourself for a shock when you dive. 

"Thank you," said the stranger, and did so, 
feeling "goose flesh" by the mere power of 
imagination. He steeled himself and dived. 

Page Six 

Then he rose, swam to the bank'°andi, clam- 
bered out, desiring ardently a few words with 
his adviser. But that "josher" had taken to 
the woods. 

Yet that story is maybe apocryphal. It is 
not in tune with the valley's way of extending 
amenities to the visitors. 

If one take one's dip aware that it is a hot 
bath, the dip is entirely enjoyable. Tales are 
told of cripples coming here and leaving their 
staffs after a course of daily immersions. It 
is a pretty spot among the hills in high sum- 
mer, ripples dancing in silver and gold in the 
tank, and youngsters rolling over a barrel and 
splashing and laughing. Even on sunny 
winter days there are many valley inhabitants 
who go up for a swim in Sinclair Hot Springs' 

Along the roadside there stand automobiles 
packed with camping outfits. Tents are 
pitched in the surrounding bush. A study of 
flags pinned to the hoods of several of the cars 
gives a hint of how far has gone the fame of 
these curative springs. A new bungalow 
camp has just been started. It is the 
era of the Automobile. One of the 
jolliest uses to which it can be put is this one 
of spinning along the mountain roads and 
camping when night comes and a creek is 
handy. One of the best Meccas for such a 
camping trip is surely Sinclair Springs. 

It is only one of the many Meccas for those 
who make Lake Windermere Camp their 
"jumping-off place." 

Route No. 4. — To Horse Thief Creek Canyon, 
visiting the intake of the Irrigation 
System. Return distance, 28 miles. 
Indicated in Green. 

There are those who would change the old 
names of the west when they are of the order 
of this name (Horse Thief Creek) lest new- 
comers think the West is woefully wild. Once 
there was a suggestion to do away with the 
name of Medicine Hat. Kipling's protest 
(among others), against any alteration, was 
to many minds a fine service, better than a 
new ballad. Such place-names are music to 
the ears of many. It is, however, told that 
a certain gentleman from the east, taking up 

a ranch in the neigborhood of the creek, 
was highly indignant on receiving a letter 
thus addressed : 


Horse Thief, 

It might have been more tactfully addressed 
maybe, but that is no reason why the name 
should go. It is part of history, although 
there are those who say (in the way of Betsy 
Prig to Sarah Gamp) that they believe there 
weren't no such person. If the accounts of 
him vary slightly, to the wise in matters of 
evidence that but adds to the belief in him. 
It is often the "put up" story that all wit- 
nesses tell with flabbergasting exactitude. 

There are still alive men who took part in 
his pursuit; and the writer of this spoke but 
recently to one who witnessed his trial. Chief 
in the chase up the creek now called Horse 
Thief Creek was a man with this name: The 
Long-Nosed Wolfer from the Plains. That 
picturesque soubriquet carries us back some 
way to — to the days when men lived by 
thinning out, for the sake of the first cattle 
and horse ranchers in Alberta, the wolves 
that pulled down calf and foal. Despite this 
motion-picture-like name the neighbourhood 
was never highly dime novel and wild movie. 
Horse Thief Creek and Police Meadows tell 
rather of exceptional than average days 

Take a lunch with you when you start out 
for Horse Thief Creek. Make a leisurely day 
of it In its big fanning valley grow many 
wild berry bushes and wild currant bushes. 
There is almost a tropic luxuriance of colour: 
red of the willow stems, blue beads of the 
saskatoon, mauve of the fire-weed, little 
dainty blossoms of the juniper. In high cran- 
nies of the imminent peaks seams of snow 
shine like salt in the sun; the shadows of cliff 
and chasm change all day, with grey, and 
blue, coral and pink, amethyst and the purple 
of dusk, tones drifting as they drift in an 
oriental vase but not rigid as on the vase, 
exquisitely transient, evanescent cn a moun- 
tain instead of fixed upon a porcelain creation, 
and by the mile, by the league. Here you may 
see the eagle, with hardly a flap of his wings. 

wheel like an airplane a mile overhead. In a 
wild cleft of the range Horse Thief Creek roars 
and tom-toms. 

Coming home through the late afternoon, 
you can turn aside to see the beginning of the 
irrigation system (if that interests you) that 
makes a garden of what a few years ago was 
but a dusty range land for wandering herds of 
cattle tearing the sparse bunches of grass. 
The main ditch (commencing here) runs along 
the benches a distance of twenty-five miles 
with laterals of fifty miles; and there is a two 
mile and a quarter stretch of steel flume. 
Another flume, from another intake, you may 
also be given the details of; seven miles of 
main, and ten of laterals. 

But, if your mood be rather for the scenic 
than the utilitarian, you will hardly hear the 
statistics murmured in your ear for thinking 
of the roar of Horse Thief Creek, for remem- 
bering the lunch hour on a shelf of grass by 
its side. Most are silent, homing from this 
trip (it has been so very good), silent and 
happy with the colours of the day and the 
heady scents of balsam and tamarack. 



1. To Swansea Peak. 

Here let us leave, for a little while, the 
automobiles in the garage, and turn our 
attention to the saddle-horse and the pack- 

Those who cannot ride may receive riding 
lessons at the Camp at very reasonable cost, 
from riding instructor or instructress; but if 
one who cannot ride does not proclaim him- 
self an expert horseman (horsemanship is 
always a subject inadvisable to bluff about 
in the West), acknowledges frankly to have 
done no bronco-busting, there are manj' 
horses for trail work that the novice may 
mount without trepidation. Wonderfully 
sure-footed are these mountain ponies; and 
the guide advised at the Camp for expeditions 
(Walter Nixon) is a man to respect not only 
for his knowledge of and care of horses, but 
for his patience with human kind. He too 

Page Seven. 


1 . Miriam Lake, at the summit of Sinclair 


2. On the Verandah of the Club House, 

Lake Windermere Camp. 

3. Looking over Athalmer to Lake W ind- 

ermere Camp. 

4. Red Gates. Sinclair Canyon, Banff- 

Windermere Road. 

5. Lake of the Hanging Glaciers. 

6. Hot Springs, Sinclair Canyon. 

7. Lake Windermere Camp. 

8. A mile of Ice Cliffs at the Lake of the 

Hanging Glaciers. 

Page Eight 

Page Nine 

has drawn out a schedule of trips, as have the 
auto people. It is as follows: — 

To Swansea Peak: A one-day trip. 

To Look-Off on Castle Rock: — A one-day 

To Paradise Mine, across mountains to 
Boulder Creek and return by Horse Thief 
Creek road; a three days' trip. 

"Lake of the Hanging Glaciers, and 
Ice Caves: Take auto for eighteen miles up 
Horse Thief Creek, and then take horses, 
making a three days' trip. Or take horses all 
the way, making a five days' trip. If a side 
trip to Iron Cap peak on Macdonaid Creek be 
added, a six to eight days' trip. From Iron 
Cap. ten thousand feet above sea-level there 
is a view over a hundred miles of mountain 
ranges, crag, glacier, forest. 

To Tegart's Pass Fish Lakes: Take 
auto for eight miles and horses for three 
miles; a one-day trip. 

. To White's Camp: A two days' trip. 

To Salmon Lakes: A three or five days' 

Through Kootenay Valley to Field, 

fishing en route: Take auto to Sinclair Summit, 
or now that the automobile road to Banff is 
open, to Kootenay Crossing, and then pack- 
train and saddle-horse: a five days' through 

Through Kootenay to Leanchoil, fishing 
en route; a three or four days' trip 

Other trips in Kootenay by arrangement. 

Let us take, under Nixon's wing, one of the 
simplest trips to begin with — to the summit 
of Swansea Peak across the lake. 

The peak (by the way) has its name from 
a copper mine just under the summit butte. 
the one of which, in early days, was shipped 
out all the way to Swansea in Wales for 

Nixon will arrange to be at the Camp with 
the saddle-horses, so that we may ride all the 
way, or to be at the roadside under Swansea 
Peak where the trail leads off, as may be 
desired. If the latter arrangement is made, 
leaving the Camp by auto, in about an hour 
you will be carried to where, round a bend, 
you will see the bunch of horses tearing grass 
and the cow-puncher hat of the guide showing 
among the scrub. A long, lean, quiet and 
entirely capable man he is, who can ride a 
river on a log or break a wild horse with 
equal skill. In his keeping the Tenderfoot is 
safe. At a glance, as you come to the horses, 
he seems to know just what you think you 
can do and what you think you can't do — and 
what you can do and what you can't do. He 
selects the mount for the man with a quick 

The car rattles off homeward. We mount 
and begin the trip — what the old-timer afore- 
mentioned might call "a lady-like saddle- 
trip. " Lunches are carried ready made, and 
Nixon has a can to prepare tea, and cups, and 
sugar, and "tin cow," and lemons; and from 
a peeled branch of a tree he will fashion the 
open-air substitute for silver spoon. Through 
the pattern of leaf and shade of the lower 
woods the trail zig-zags up in easy grades. 

The hoofs clump muffled on the floor of sand 
and old cone and needle dust. That is all. A 
wind stirs the little birches. A blue bird darts 
past. With an amazing celerity for those 

accustomed to climb their mountains afoot, 
the plod of the horses takes them high in the 
world. We coast a butte and look down over 
tree tops on the long perspective of Winder- 
mere and Grasmere. mount higher and bring 
Columbia Lake into view, twist on up through 
the woods, plucking saskatoon berries from 
the saddle as we ride; and when again a bald 
scarp of hill gives intermission among the 
trees, see that there is seemingly no end to the 
Selkirk Range opposite us. Peaks not seen 
from the Camp have the air of tip-toeing up 
forty, fifty, sixty miles away. Range rises 
beyond range. Fai glaciers show as if painted 
on the sky, clearer (because of their white 
gleam) than the distant peaks in which they 
are set. 

We see the long stretch of the bench-lands 
far below, tawny or yellow, patterned here 
and there with vivid green where the irriga- 
tion ditches are bringing corn and alfalfa out 
of the dry soil. On we go and see a curious 
circle on a plateau, where in old days the 
young men of the Kootenay tribe used to 
come to fast, and to pray to Manitou, and to 
await a vision; and whatever beast or bird 
they saw in that vision was their totem or 
spiritual guide thereafter. Having sufficiently 
mused there on the heart of man and his 
wandering soul, that put a peace or a trouble 
in his eyes, we ride on, sitting a little forward 
in the saddle for the pony's ease, climbing up 
and up till we come to two or three cabins in 
a niche near the summit, and a dump of 
rubble (rocks of blue, yellow, and red), an 
old shaft and a tunnel. It is a place somewhat 
reminiscent of that deserted camp at which 
Robert Louis Stevenson lived on Mount 
Saint Helena, as told of in his The Silverado 

We can examine the simple bunks ot 
saplings and note the trig effect of the sapling 
porch, tucking away in the mind hints against 
the day when we may build our own log cabin 
somewhere. Now the squirrels run on the 
roof and chatter annoyance at our intrusion, 
for the place has been Icng deserted. 

Here we make a fire and undo the sandwich 
bundles and the billy is filled. The tea at 
Lake Windermere Camp is good, but this 
open-air tea has a quality all its own. 
Refreshed, we leave the horses tethered to 
enjoy their lunch while we climb the summit 
butte, hauling ourselves upward by live 
balsam boughs, and from the peak see, sixtj' 
miles or so to south, a trickle of smoke 
indicate Fort Steele, and a haze of smoke, 
eighty miles or so to north, give the position 
of Golden. Far below wind-ripples run on 
the lakes and on the alfalfa fields. We look 
straight out on aerial mountains, the toppling 
and changing clouds. Under them the sum- 
mits of range after range (the sky-lines like 
lightning flashes as to shape, zig-zag, gro- 
tesque) lead the gaze into the dimness of dis- 
tance and give a quiet to the day. "Click- 
click " the grasshoppers veer, and are wildly 
deflected by the breeze. There comes a rub- 
a-dub of the hoofs of range-horses galloping 
down some draw for water. They will graze 
up among these foot-hills for two or three 
days on end, then unanimously set off down 
hill for a drink and come trooping and string- 
ing back again. Nixon will show you also. 

here and there, the cloven print of deer, but 
these are shy creatures, requiring patience to 
be seen. 

Add a stone to the surveyor's cairn on the 
summit, for a memorial that you have been 
there, and for a foolish memory that you 
have done so when you are back again where 
all that cleaves the sky is the Flatiron 

IL To The Lake of the Hanging Glaciers. 

As a contrast to that "lady-like" addle 
trip to Swansea Peak, let us take the trip to 
the Lake of the Hanging Glaciers. 

To some folks part of the glamour of it is 
that twice a river has to be forded. Improve- 
ment committees may some day put their 
heads together and fling bridges across that 
river; but it is to be hoped not. Let there 
remain for long a diversity of fun in the 
region, bridge trips for those who would have 
all bridged, ford trips for those who would ride 
through the wilds and leave them showing no 
evidence of their passage save the hoof mark 
of the flatly-stepping mountain pony on the 
dust of the narrow trail 

The Lake of the Hanging Glaciers! Maybe 
the very sound of the name has allured us, 
sitting in some back-east or Old Country 
office. Why hanging? Well, we shall go and 
see. We shall go and see how apt is the name. 
Most people who take this trip prefer to 
motor the first eighteen miles, having made 
arrangements for the guide to be at that 
place with saddle and pack-horses, the 
"chuck," the tents, the blankets; for the first 
eighteen miles is along a wagon-road that 
winds its way through the foothills. By 
saddle all the way is a five days' trip. If a 
car sets one out that eighteen miles and comes 
back there by arrangement to lift one home 
again to the Camp it is a three days' trip. 

These glamorous days! The car brushes 
aside the protruding fir branches, spins round 
a corner, comes to a clearing with a scatter of 
shacks; and there are the horses flicking their 
tails, the youthful "horse-wrangler," Bill, 
busy with a pack-saddle; Madeline, shirted, 
breeched, and booted like a boy, leading up a 
pinto pony from the meadow; and Nixon, 
under the shadow of his big cow-puncher hat 
(that will mean as much to us as a bishop's 
mitre before we are home again), considering 
us with calm, dispassionate eyes, not without 
humour. There is something of Wister's 
Virginian about Nixon that gives vast con- 
fidence to the tenderfoot. But this is of the 
trail and not of the guide. 

The long grass whips aside from the stir- 
rups; the pack-horses have gone ahead in the 
care of Bill and Madeline, and their white- 
covered packs gleam and pass in the scrub, 
top a ridge, show between the fir-boles, drift 
on. We ride slow and easy, becoming 
acquainted with our mounts, exchanging 
understandings At the end of three days you 
will know your horse as you know a friend 
and draw a hand over his white-splashed 
hammer forehead and down his Roman nose 
with an unashamed gesture of affection, in a 
stroke of farewell not without a pang — or you 
are a queer kind of man indeed. Jess, the 
what-hound, half Airedale, half bull, accom- 

Page Ten 

panics the string. There's the good open-air 
horse smell, the swish of the horses' tails, the 
colours of fireweed and Michaelmas daisies 
in wild bouquets. Give your horse his head 
at the corduroy bridges crossing the first 
little tributary creeks, with a hand just ready 
to pull him up if he stumbles — though hardly 
is he likely to stumble. They are canny-footed 
almost as deer, these astute descendants of 
the Arabs of Cortez. 

Such trips are not without incident. Maybe 
some wasps, enraged at your passage, alight 
on a horse. That moment too you will remem- 
ber back in Wall Street, or wherever you sign 
cheques and talk on telephones. Be good to 
your mount. Comfort him. Nixon will have 
his eye on you to help you if you need help, 
but he will not unduly dry-nurse you. When 
the menace is past dismount and take the 
stings from the beast you ride. He will say 
"thanks" in the way horses say "thanks," 
thrusting his forehead against your chest, 
rubbing it up and down. You will wish then 
that your father had made you a cow-puncher 
instead of indenturing you in that office. 
That's something to remember — the day 
when Baldy and you made friends, over the 
string of a wasp on the Horse Thief trail. Is 
all this trivial to you ? If so, stay at the Camp 
and play golf or tennis (there's a tennis court 
there too, as well as the nine-hole golf links), 
both pleasant games. The creak of saddle- 
leather is another song. 

About noon we make up on the pack-horses 
where the wranglers have halted them and lit 
a fire. Nixon is good to his horses, and the 
packs are removed, the beasts roll in the 
grass while the human beings refresh them- 
selves, to the tune of a wind in the tree tops 
or a creek in a ravine — hard to tell which — a 
gentle, ceaseless rustle in the big green still- 
ness. Our guide cuts a switch for one human 
who has none, and requires it, looks at it. 
comments: "It is a crooked kind of a switch. 
Well, it will serve. It's a crooked kind of a 
trail." To another he says: "You don't need 
to switch your horse at all. He don't under- 
stand that. He don't need it." 

The cups and plates are washed and tucked 
away. The packs are on the saddles. The 
pack-string lopes off through the bushes and 
is lost to sight, and again we ride. The 

mountains draw'closer, and the people, in 
some subtle fashion, draw closer too, even 
though riding far apart. One knows more of 
a man in half a day and during one meal on 
the trail than in a month in cities. Riding on. 
in this luxuriant valley, we look up thousands 
of feet and see a creek flowing over the edge 
of a high creek and played with by every 
wind, now flowing straight over and anon 
blown out like smoke or a banner, next 
moment turned into a series of gauzy frills. 
But it is better not to gush about all that 
One recalls the gentleman met by Kipling 
(pardon, if it seem necessary, the mentioning 
twice of one scribe in so brief a brochure) in 
his Western travels, who resented the name 
"bridal veil " as applied to such wind-snatched 
waters and, with a vigorous cuss word, 
enquired why one didn't say so many yards 
of chiffon and have done with it! It drifts 
like steam, it billows like a pennant, it falls 
like the white creek it is, a series of rippling 
frills and then, in a volley of wind up, there is 
agitated gauze again. 

We ride entranced, gazing up on the wild- 
ness of the mountain into which we journey. 
Suddenly the horses halt in the narrow trail, 
one after the other, as automobiles halt in a 
block of traffic in a roaring city street. Since 
the pack-train passed a tree has fallen, or else 
the pack-horses moved round this one which 
blocks our trail some other way. Nixon has 
dismounted, taking the big axe from the sling 
at his saddle-horn. It swings and clips. The 
tree crashes down into the deeper gulch 

"All right!" comes his voice, and we ride on. 

The trees increase in height. The deep 
recesses of the woods are blue and a tranquil 
green, sifted with sun-rays. Here and there 
the trail winds round a steep slope and we see, 
framed between the straight stems of pines 
and an overhanging branch, the swirl of Horse 
Thief Creek below. We are a row of smiles in 
the saddle, from Walter Nixon to the most 
diffident rider in the expedition. There may 
be a look of trepidation on the face of some 
novice of the saddle, but the delight is greater 
than the funk 

"Are you scared, ma'am ? There ain't any- 
thing to be scared of." 

"A wee bit scared perhaps," comes the 

admission, "but oh, 'my goodness, 1 wouldn't 
miss it for a thousand dollars." 
\.. Away we string into the next serene climb 
of firs, top an elbow of side-mountain, look 
up a blue gorge to a wedge of snow, step 
across a tributary creek where the horses 
cluster to drink again, go swish-swish through 
grass to the girths and wild flowers, as in a 
tropic scene, again troop down; and to our 
olfactory nerves comes a smell of wood 
smoke, and. to our ears the clang of a horse- 

We have reached the camp- place of that day. 

Have you ever done it before ? If not, these 
days will be among the most memorable of 
your life. There was a Saracen king who, 
on his death-bed, told the number of his 
happy days. He had counted them all. For 
most men, such days as these, through the 
big timber to the Alpine meadows and the 
glaciers, are among the Happy Days — the 
days that do not ever die, go right into the 

Do you know the taste of tea in the open ? 
\ ou will know it then. Potatoes and beans 
and peas are soon on the fire. Bacon sputters. 
The tin of condensed milk (for those who care 
for it) is punctured atop. The lemon is sliced 
for those who prefer a slice of lemon. The 
horse-bells of the pack-string tinkle close by 
in the bush to north. A squirrel springs his 
rattle. To south Horse Thief Creek goes by, 
a rushing grade of glacial water. High on the 
opposing mountain a marmot whistles his 
single clear whistle, fooling Jess, who leaps 
to her feet and looks tor a man. Dusk swims 
down the valley. Bill goes off on the back- 
track to draw a rope from tree to tree across 
the trail, at a place where a long wind-fall is 
above it and a deep bank of creek below, so 
that the horses will not stray homeward. 
Nixon takes an axe and, selecting straight 
pines, fells them for tent-poles and clips off 
their branches to make mattresses. High 
above, the peaks still shine with a blaze and 
shimmer as of full day. 

The beds are made; the ground sheets are 
flung over the fir-bough mattresses. The 
heavy blankets are spread. The light goes 
out on the lofty peaks, and it is night round 
the campfire and the tents, but still, very 
high above the purpling silhouettes of the 

Page Eleven 

Cabin at 

ranges, a wisp of cloud shows gold. Then that 
too fades. The day is over; we draw the tent 
flap, and on the "fir-feather" mattress, breath- 
ing deep of its robust odour, fall asleep to the 
eternal murmur of Horse Thief Creek lapsing 
down from that Lake of the Hanging Glaciers 
that on the morrow we shall see. 

We waken with Venus like a moon on^the 
tip of a pink pinnacle above us, and a chill in 
the air; and there's a crackle of wood aflame, 
the breakfast fire having been started. Nixon 
is washing his hands carefully, preparatory to 
cooking breakfast for his ecstatic pilgrims. 
Within an hour we are off, leaving the tents 
standing, carrying only lunch, for we'll be 
back here again to supper. 

Going to the Hanging Glaciers is almost as 
good as getting there, so many are the 
memorable vistas on the way. There are 
glimpses of far peak and glacier through 
notch of fir-filled summits that one could live 
with all day; patterns as of white lace-work 
over green — creeks on a confronting moun- 
tainside. By the narrow trail we come to the 
last high and dusky forest. We see, beyond 
its wild natural avenues, a blaze of gold and 
blue, flecked with white, and ride out of that 
dark forest into the bright day on an upland 
meadow, where every tread of a hoof crushes 
for a moment the wild flowers and phyllodece. 
We dismount and cannot step but on a blos- 
som. Stupendous rock-slides fan dov/n on 
either hand. Mother ptarmigan clucks to her 
broods; their white-tipped wings skim over 
the coloured meadow; they trot across the 
snow neves. From above a marmot whistles 
a long clear whistle of warning. 

Tramping on the last half-mile to the lake, 
we know why old-timer Bruce christened this 
spectacle before us the Lake of the Hanging 
Glaciers. There is the glacial lake with its 
changing colours like an opal. Beyond are the 
fronts of the glaciers (reminding us of pictures 
of the Antarctic Ice Barrier) making a wall of 
ice fantastically caverned. We are facing the 
valley's end. at the beginning of Horse Thief 
Creek, the tremendous cul-de-sac. It is a 
sweep of mountains, an ampitheatre many 
miles around. The glaciers — we can count 
eight of them — are each a colossal letter A, or 
an upturned V, in that summit-bowl of blue 
rock. In the lake fronting them float little 

icebergs — "calves " of the glaciers. We are 
ten thousand feet, or thereabouts, above sea- 
level. We are lost to the world of politics and 
wars and rumours of wars and bills and re- 
ceipts. We sit among the wild flowers, the 
ice-fields gleaming round us, warm in the 
August sun. A great stillness is in these high 
places. It is punctuated intermittently by a 
rumble not of thunder, the rumble of rock 
slides. Far from paving stones and crowds, 
we are where we can watch Old Nature at her 
work. When the late afternoon light is queer, 
awesome, on the peaks, we turn back to where 
the horses wait us between two long rock- 
slides on a wedge of grass, and go riding back 
down the trail, to the tents, and the fire in the 
twilight, and the "fir-feather " mattresses. 

Next day we ride quietly homeward again, 
wishing we could stay there till the snows 
come down, with a hundred memories of 
horrific glacier, exquisite peace of upland 
valley, fiiligree of silver (of distant torrents) 
across the green of the hills, scent of the 
balsam, creak of the saddle, to where, from 
the big car, that comes to meet us on the 
wagon road and carry us home, we look back 
at a bend and see the faithful ponies clustered 
grazing and, perhaps a little blurred (for it is 
an expedition never to forget), catch the part- 
ing wave of Nixon's big cow-puncher hat. 


Route No. 5. — Around Lake Windermere — 
visiting the Radium Springs en route. 
Return distance: 40 miles. Indicated in 
Black, west side; Blue, east side. 

"All set?" 

"All set?" 

The car bobs forth with a pennon of dust, 
whirls away from the natty table-napkins and 
the hardwood floor, and the broad veranda, 
or gallery, of the Camp's central house, upon 
motor route number 5, along the edges of the 
westerly benches on the tops of which the 
flumes of the Irrigation Company run south, 
past democrat rigs drawn aside, to let the 
"devil wagon" pass, by Kootenay Indians 
going out to the berry-picking in the foot-hills, 
on beyond the irrigated lands to where the 

bull pines begin^to stand(far apart and iitt'e 
trails lead off to cattle and horse ranches. 

Some long, lean cow-puncher, on a nervous 
pony that droops his head to the slope, 
daintily fumbling downhill, comes into view 
like a Frederic Remington, or Charles Russel 
drawing, pack-pony unladen to heel, on his 
way to Wilmer for supplies — from the old 
K. 2 ranch maybe. Lone in the sun, suddenly, 
round a bend, we see an automobile truck. 
There is no one in sight. On the truck we 
read the words: "Forestry Department. " 
Straight uphill from where that motor-truck 
stands a trail twists away across the slope of 
strewn pine needles and fir cones. A fire has 
broken out somewhere in the backward hills 
and valleys. Fire-warden, cow-puncher, or 
rancher has given notice of it over the nearest 
telephone wire, and a fire-fighting crew has 
been got together. Away along that trail, 
somewhere or another, a day's trek, or two 
days' trek, or three days' trek, or more, they 
are fighting the destroj'er, armed with axes. 
The fire must be far back, for no faintest haze 
of smoke blurs the day as we rush on through 
the pine-scented air to Windermere (the lake). 
It swims into view, a blue mirror of the sky, 
to left, on the far side the reflections of the 
benches are yellow in it. Then the foothill 
trees, inverted, stab down into it, and next the 
reflections of the peaks. The whole fore-water 
(if one may be allowed a neologism) is reflec- 
tion of great white soaring clouds, and of blue. 
It is afternoon and the sun has come west of 
these peaks; they rise like peaks of pumice- 
stone and coral. The motor-launch of some 
rancher pulses across the glow, and leaves a 
wedge of ripples that streak the water with 
bars till its surface looks like an exquisite 
watered silk. To right Dutch Creek comes 
rumbling down out of the mountains, and the 
driver tells us of the old placer-mining rush to 
the valley and of the "Dutchy" prospector 
after whom the creek is named, and how still, 
with a pan, one may find "colour in the 

"The great scheme is to get where there's 
a crack between rocks and scoop the sand out 
of it. You see, the creek is practically a pros- 
pector itself at such places. The gold dust is 
always sinking to the bottom, and the creek 
hydraulicking. Sometimes at the bottom of 

Page Twelve 

such a crack you'll find a whole spoonful of 
gold-dust silted down. It's sure exciting — as 
exciting as fishing. " 

We come to a halt at a cress-roads, and 
when the roar of the engine ceases all the 
little sounds that accentuate the quiet are in 
our ears; the hum of wild bees, the chirr of 
grasshoppers, the gay click of the .June-hug. 
O a tree trunk we see a bar of black and a 
bar of blue. Here the high road is fcr a spell 
both the Black Trail and the Blue Trail — the 
road from Golden to Dutch Creek, the road 
also to Los Angeles. 

Round the south end of Windermere we go, 
crossing the Columbia River where it narrows 
between the stretches of Grasmere and Wind- 
ermere. On our left the west shore then sends 
down its tranquil reflections as an hour ago 
did the east shore; and .soon we come to such 
a house-front as recalls Old England, its 
flowered gables and its orchards. This is 
Radium, once known as Fairmont — with a 
lilac hedge before the green lawn, sweet peas 
making a pool of their scent among the more 
robust odour of the pines. If you have brought 
your bathing suit, go a mile and a half uphill 
through the woods for a dip in Radium 

In their season the wild flowers are beautiful 
here. And climbing thither, with every step 
we see. bobbing up. the verj' ancient, time- 
bitten notched tops of the Rockies. The 
Springs rise on a knoll below the sweep of 
these high precipices and forests, a queer 
knoll, queerly encrusted with the deposits 
from the springs. One of them has been 
enclosed in a bath-house, a spring of great 
heat. Into that bath one puts gingerly a toe 
or heel, and immerses by degrees. The other 
springs — less near to boiling point — are in the 
open air. as the Creator left them. A concrete 
bath has been built by the owner of the 
springs, and a bungalow camp alongside has 
been started. The water smells chiefly, but 
not offensively, of sulphur. A queer place! 
For long these waters have been celebrated as 
curative for rheumatic pains, sciatica, lum- 
bago and the like. 

Then we run home again northward on the 
east shore, past the Kootenay Indian reserve, 
with its blend of tended fields and untended 
wilderness, its log-cabins and barns, and its 
tipis. In that exultant open air we are not 
astonished that the aborigine, who had houses 
thrust upon him in the attempt to make him 
a white man. is glad (like the white man at 
times) to get out of them again back into a 
tent, to get into the open air. Is it not. indeed, 
chiefly for the sake of the open air that we are 
here ? We shall remember these tipis, and the 
blue smoke of the summer cooking fires in the 
open before them, when we are back again in 
our cities. 

Route No. 6. — To Vermilion River Camp 
on Banff-Windermere Road. Return dis- 
tance. 53 miles. Indicated in Black, or 
Blue, to begin; then Blue. 
Route No. 6 begins as does Route No. 3. but 
after the twelve miles to Sinclair Hot Springs 
have been covered the car continues another 
twenty miles. By this service one sees the 
queer Hcodoos by the side of Sinclair Creek, 
sees also the Canyon and Gap. also the Hot 
Spring bath — and then much else. There is 

something Dore-esque, terrible, yet grand, in 
these miles about the summit, swept some 
years ago by forest fire. They remind the 
traveller of certain cards of warning (tacked 
on the cabin walls at the Camp) requesting 
carefulness regarding matches, cigarette-ends, 
and camp-fires. By the million they stand 
there, these burnt trees, tall charcoal stalks 
and nothing more. It is a sight to see, 
although one we might well be spared. Yet 
even there, with the awesome and the terrible, 
is beauty. Great clumps of wild daisies, blue 
and white, stand by the road-side. The blue 
beads of the saskatoon berry catch the eye. 
The red of the Indian paint-brush makes its 
little spire among the grass. Sinclair Creek 
comes tumbling down in the gorge with fall 
and pool as in Sidney Lanier's lines about 
"the lights of streaming stone. " That's the 
illusion — streaming stone! 

Announcing its power, the engine purrs a 
little more deeply and we sweep up to the 
summit. The driver knows what to expect: 
there is a call for him to halt. No need to 
explain why this summit water to which we 
have come is called Olive Lake! It is a long 
sliver of olive green set in the high notch of 
the Divide. The car stops and the big silence 
falls on us. There is not a ripple on the surface 
of that lake. It is like some strange jade in 
which the fish mysteriously move. A fallen 
charred tree or two, further record of the fire, 
thrusts out, jetty-like, in a narrow bay, 
motionless. It was over some such pool as 
this Narcissus stooped. Into some such en- 
chanted waters Hylas went, following the 
nymphs, leaving Heracles to call in vain 
through the forest: "Hylas! Hylas!" But that 
is all myth. The truth and beauty of this West 
need no such mythology. The man who talks 
here of seeing Pan in the woods is crazy ! The 
ghost of David Thompson is another matter 
— or of Simpson going his rounds for the 
Company of Adventurers trading into Hud- 
son's Bay, plug-hatted, omnipotent, grand, 

Let's get on. The wild bees hum past. The 
patterned butterflies poise and veer and 
waver, wine-coloured with red spots, yellow 
with a black dot on the tip of either wing, 
white like sweet-pea blossoms blown away. 
The Olive Lake, in its transparent green, 
mirrors the slighest cloud. 

The route is not ended here. The car purrs 
on, goes coasting down the further slope. 
There are a few bends and twists at side 
draws and little creek crossings, and also, as 
we journey on, many long straight stretches 
between (at that part, beyond the area of the 
forest fire) live trees, stately taper columns 
that soar a hundred and twenty feet, long per- 
spectives of forest avenues. We are still high 
in the world there; and over the uncounted 
tree-tops can see the main wall of the Rockies, 
pick out the chasm that leads to Cross River, 
and White Man Pass, and the pass called 
Kananaskis. Between us and that range, 
lined by intervening trees, and patterned by 
branches, is a twist of opal colour, revealed 
and lost and gleaming again, 

"What's that we ask. 

"That's the Kootenay." 

So we are well over the Divide! Some extol 

the beauty, but for most part it is too good 
for much talk. 

Down into the Kootenay Valley we swing 
and then purr along a level stretch between an 
avenue of tall trees till we reach the crossing of 
the Kootenay River. The Vermilion River, 
larger apparently — volume even than the Koo- 
tenay itself — pours its turbulent stream down 
a pass to the right from the Great Divio. . 
Up these we drive, with scenery all around us 
ever growing more spectacular till we reach 
the comforting community hcuse of the new 
Vermilion River Bungalow Camp. 

After a rest and sDme pleasant refreshment 
we climb aboard again and go crackling 
back — a little quiet with the beauty of it all, 
to the Camp where the tinkling piano sounds 
oddly thin, trivial, after the wonder of these 
places where the Sinclair tom-toms to the 
quiet, and the Vermilion and Mitchell ranges 
thrust up. from out their lower-draping of 
forests, jagged edges to the sky. 
Route No. 7. — To Number Three Creek and 
Fish Lakes, Return distance: 60 miles. 
Indicated in Yellow. 
It is perhaps one of these odd grey mornings 
that do come even in this valley beloved of 
the sun. As it says in the old English ballad: 
"The wind doth blow to-day. my love. 
And a few small drops of rain 
A little spatter (a "smeer" as the Scots say) 
can be welcomed when setting out on this 
route. If it lays the dust at least sufficiently 
to make the road grey instead of white we 
can look forward to good fishing. 

The car crackles off, laying two white 
ribbons of tyre-pattern on that grey. The 
Selkirks, towards which we rush, are revealed 
and lost. Peak and cloud of the same hue 
(we can't tell one from the other on such a 
morning) make "effects" fantastic, weird, 
bizarre, grotesque. There comes a deep sense 
of the immensity of the land as we rattle on 
and on, coasting bluffs of sand as though on a 
sea shore, pulsing across a plateau where 
range cattle raise their heads and stare. We 
have a glimpse of a canon that in a land less 
prodigal of the spectacular would be a 
journey's end. but do not halt, hardly pause. 

Coasting more bluffs, raising coveys of 
willow-grouse, we chirr across another bench, 
where horses snort and gallop. We rush on 
and see an eagle on the road ahead. He cranes 
his neck, humps his shoulders, rises with a 
leisurely great flap and glides away into the 
changing backcloth where the peaks seem to 
topple and the clouds seem stable as the 
peak.-i. Butterflies to match the yellow sage 
flutter through the grey. Then comes a chat- 
tering outburst of bird-talk and magpies sweep 
over us. Still on. as in Henley's Song of 
Speed\ Rays of light and wedges of shadow, 
leagues long, suddenly bar the western view. 
Then the lakes begin, one after the other, grey 
and creased, and reed edged, and with an 
aspect of mute loneliness. 

We alight and stroll to and fro to get our 
"land legs" and read a notice tacked to a 
spruce : 

Be a Woodsman. 
See that your match. 
Tobacco or Camp Fire is 
Completely OUT. 
Get the Habit. 

Page Thirteen 

We take out the fishing-rods and seek a trail 
to the side of one of the fish lakes and are 
confronted by another red card on a blue 

Camp, Hunt, and Fish 
And Come Again Next Year. But 

You'll Enjoy it More if You 
The fire-wardens are not "running chances!" 

All in half a day we have come to primitive 
little lone lakes, where geese and ducks honk 
and jabber, and where the loon comes sweep- 
ing down and gives his haunting call. On the 
end of some old tree thrust out beyond the 
reeds we stand, making our cast. Time is 
forgotten. The dragon-flies shuttle to and fro, 
clashing in the reeds. Our line sweeps out; 
the reel makes a noise that seems appallingly 
loud in the big hush that, otherwise, only the 
chatter of wild duck disturbs, or that laugh 
of the loon. 

. Just a stone's throw back, beyond a wind- 
fall of ancient trees, the automobile, the 
gasoline buggy, the 20th Century "devil 
wagon" waits to take us back to table-napkins 
and cut flowers in vases and menu-cards. 

Riding into the Mountains 

It is a very moving experience for the city 
man to sit on the gallery at Lake Windermere 
Camp, the moon and the bench-shadows 
turning the lake into a wedge of deep blue and 
a wedge of silver, the light from indoors 
streaming out upon a pad of paper on the 
knee of guide Nixon noting our culinary likes 
and dislikes preparatory to riding up into 
the mountains. Do we prefer tea to coffee, 
coffee to tea ? Or will we desire both ? Do 
we like peas, beans, Indian corn ? What are 
our favourite fruits — pears, or peaches, or 
apricots ? 

He drifts off in the moonlight with his list 
of our likes and dislikes in food, and the city 
man goes down to his cabin to be awakened 
at morning by the calling of loons — to wonder 
again if it is true. 

An automobile arrives for us after break- 
fast. It stops at Pitts' store, where Nixon 
left his list that we filled in in the moonlight. 
All is ready for us: tea and coffee; flour, 
potatoes and bread; tongue and ham and 
bacon; peas, beans, Indian corn and tomatoes; 
salt and sugar; and the fruit of our choice. 
About an hour later we come to Morland's 
ranch with its trim fences, its barns and hay- 
stacks, its orchards standing in their drilled 
straight lines, the trickle of an irrigation ditch 
on one hand and the song of a creek on the 

There by the roadside, on a grassy patch, 
stand the horses, as we have seen them in 
pictures, high-saddled, one hind leg at ease. 
Now is the time to watch how pack-saddles 
are loaded and to observe the art of throwing 
the diamond hitch. Food and blankets and 
tents, in wondrous short space of time, are 
on the horses; cinches are tightened and we 
pass through Morland's yard, where the cows 
low, on to the first bench of the Rockies 
eastward, the ragged edges of the Stanford 
range above, zig-zag, against the utterly 
admirable morning sky. We ride on, up 
Tegart's Pass, and there drifts into us a 

feeling of excellent ease, as in' Knibbs'^^song: 
"There ain't no door and there ain't no gate; 

And there ain't no folks that got to wait 
Till I git there, if I'm ten years late; 

Git along, cayuse, git along." 

We get along into deeper peace at an easy 
horse-walk. Sing us, poets, a song of the 
swish of ponies' tails, long tails, and the frou- 
frou of saddle-leather! We twine along the 
sage-scented benches. We pass into woods of 
dancing birch and ride on through the ara 
besque of cottonwood lights and shades. 
W. H. Hudson, in one of his books of tlie 
South American pampa, tells of riding his 
horse at night, lying backwards, till it seemed 
he rode Pegasus among the stars. Here is a 
somewhat kindred delight — joggmg on, 
etherealised, thiough the wind stirred pattern 
of leaf and sun. 

A pack-horse comes to a place where a tree, 
in falling, has been propped by an upright 
neighbour, and the two make an upturned V 
The cayuse considers the space and then acts 
much as does a lady wearing a wide-brimmed 
hat when passing through a narrow doorway. 
He sidles the near pack through and gives a 
little jolt, sidles the off-pack through and then 
hops. There! He is through! Another one 
considers the space, turns, walks aside, evi- 
dently believing in circumvention. One of the 
big little delights of such travel (the "tremen- 
dous trifles," as Chesterton might say) comes 
of noting the individual characteristics of the 
horses. They are gregarious creatures, but 
not by any means bereft of individuality. 

We mount on, up and up, through the cot- 
tonwoods; and then Douglas firs come in 
sight, the advance guard of the Big Timber. 
They stand stately, a hundred feet of spire 
of dark green sequins, trim against the blue. 
The scent of sage left behind, we ride into the 
aroma of balsam and pine tree. The ponies 
snatch greiss as they walk, and it is no bad 
trait, for not always is there plentiful feed 
when evening falls. As we ride we come to an 
understanding with them that they may not 
stop to graze, but that there is no harm in 
having pickings as they pass. They grow 
adept at that. They do it as easily as the 
riders feel in pocket for a bar of chocolate to 
stave off mountain apfjetite till lunch time. 
Sometimes the rider breaks his own rule, 
lured by a berry bush ; and both horse and man 
refresh at the one bush. 

Those days in the mountains! Memorable 
days! One might write a lyric on horse and 
man in the big timber. We exchange much. 
There is a clap on the neck for a steep grade 
excellently crested. Then there is also that 
delightful moment when the horse expresses 
his liking for us, shoving a gustily-puffing 
nose into our palm, rubbing a white-splashed 
forehead against us when we alight for the 
noon refreshment. Long before that we are 
(in a phrase of the West) "feeling good." 
Almost soundless the hoofs plod on the trail, 
and as we ride we are suddenly aware of 
brilliant blue to right of us, and far below — 
just the colour. It is of a little lake with a 
steep bank of trees above trees; and it is as in 
that line: 

"Every little pool is the blue sky's brother." 

It is a quiet, wild dingle with no sound but 
the splash of a fish fly-catching. 

The riders stop and gaze; and Nixon 
remarks: "Some folks in the heat of cities 
would give a lot to be right here to-day." It 
is good to be there — right there. But it is all 
good among the firs on the old Rocky slopes. 
We can ride on in confidence that as good 
awaits us. 

A fine camp here is by a meadow and two 
clear lakes, one of these almost hid in a half 
circle sweep of tall red cliffs. The water is 
nearly as clear as the air, save for the silken 
reflections and the occasional wrinkling of its 
surface in a wind. We can see the fish, deep 
down (it is a very deep little "pot-hole" that), 
twiddle a fin and poise and turn. Very delect- 
able to the palate they are, these cut-throat 
trout. They like their flies to be red, and will 
snatch even a shred of red wool plucked from 
a sweater's frayed cuff. Leave some. Fish 
your supper like a jolly out-of-doors fellow 
rather than like an agent for a fishmongery 
store, or a record breaker. Here is no place 
for record-breaking, where the kingfishers 
alight on a tree to watch you, and the ducks 
chatter from the rushes. 

Beyond these lakes comes a long tract of 
deep timber, with trappers' trails beginning 
to show, and their signs on trees. That's 
the trail to where the elk and cariboo dwell in 
their big green domain. That's the way to 
the high rocks where you unsling the binoculars 
to look for sheep and goat. Spanish moss 
hangs beard-like from the cedars. You can 
go for a week and not see menu-cards again 
till you come to Banff. You can make a 
month of it, if you wish, and come riding 
down at last out of the great ranges to see 
below you the long leisurely rolls of the 
Alberta foothills. The bird called "whipsaw" 
announces the coming of dusk out of the east, 
and the bird called "whisky jack" (from the 
Indian wiss-ka-tjan, by the way) makes 

Nixon may beguile the hour around the 
fire after supper with the story of the trapper 
who became so greatly like a beaver that he 
always, when in trouble, dived into deep 
water; or tell of the apochryphal, ridiculous, 
preposterous order of the New York Zoo for 
two hundred and fifty bear cubs, and what 
befel; or of the bear that Mac met, wearing 
his best waistcoat and smoking one of his 
cigars; narratives with a quaint smack of 
Folk Tale, related to Indian Lodge-Tales, not 
just "tall stories " at all, nor, rightly con- 
sidered, "just lies " — the kind of stories that 
men in the open weave round the leap of the 
flames for a little laughter before sleep 


Another Joy-Spin and Adieu 

Automobile Route No. 8. — To Columbia 
Lake and Canal Flats, the headwater of 
the Columbia River. Return distance: 80 
miles. Indicated in Black on west side of 
lake, then in Blue. 

Route No. 8 begins, as does No. 5, on the 
road indicated by a black bar on the trees: 
but, instead of turning east at the end of 
Lake Windermere, the car continues south- 
ward, coasting Grasmere and Columbia Lakes. 

Page Fourteen 


The tortuous nature of the rivers of the west 
has, in their time, misled many of the early 
travellers. It is generally supposed that what 
baffled David Thompson in this region was 
the fact of one river (the Kootenay) flowing 
south and another (the Columbia) flowing 
north, that he presumed they were one and 
the same and that not far off was a big bend. 
His journals show that the cause of his baffle- 
ment was otherwise, although that may have 
caused him some wonder too. The point of 
his main temporary error is summarised by 
Lawrence J. Burpee, in that fascinating 
volume. The Search for the Western Sea, as 
follows : 

"In connection with the misconception 
of Fraser, and also Alexander Mackenzie, 
as to the true character of this river" (the 
river later called the Fraser) "it is some- 
what curious that at the very time Fraser 
was struggling down what he thought was 
the Columbia. David Thompson was pad- 
dling up the true Columbia, without know- 
ing it. The error was natural enough in 
both Ccises. Looking at the completed map 
of the Pacific coast as we have it to-day. 
we may wonder at first how they could have 
been led into such a mistake. But it must 
be remembered that in the days of Fraser 
and Thompson all that had actually been 
discovered was the upper waters of this 
unknown river" (the Fraser) "and the 
mouth of the Columbia. What more 
natural than to suppose that this mighty 
river, pointing down so significantly to 
where the mouth of the Columbia was 
known to be. was itself the Columbia ? And 
on the other hand, how could David 
Thompson have imagined, until he had 
traced its entire course, that the river which 
he reached by way of Howse Pass, and 
which flowed not south, but north, was in 
reality the Columbia ? ' 

It is worth while considering a map of the 
region, with the rivers clearly shown, to 
realise this matter. Mr. Burpee also sum- 
marises as follows: 

"A few miles south of the summit" (of 
the Rockies, in Howse Pass) "Thompson 
reached the upper waters of a small tribu- 
tary of the Columbia, now known as Blae- 
berry River, 'whose current,' he notes in 

his journal, descends to the Pacific Ocean': 
and he piously exclaims: 'May God in His 
Mercy give me to see where its waters flow 
into the ocean, and return in safety.' He 
camped near the summit on the 23rd. 
waiting for Finan McDonald and the rest 
of his party who arrived the following day. 
He then descended Blaeberry River to the 
main stream, this portion of which he named 
the Kootanie. Duncan McGillivray had, 
as we have already seen, reached the 
Blaeberry River in 1800, but had gone no 
further. Thompson was the first white man 
to stand upon the banks of the Upper 
Columbia. He reached the river on June 
30th. and fixed his position in lat. 51° 25' 
14". long. 116° 52' 45". He camped here 
for twelve days, building canoes. On the 
1 2th July he packed everything into these 
and paddled up stream to a lake which he 
called Kootanae, now Windermere Lake. 
Here, or rather about a mile below the 
northern end of the lake, he unloaded his 
canoes and built a fort — Fort Kootanae, or. 
to adopt the modern spelling. Kootenay. 
on the west side of the Columbia, in lat. 
50° 32' I 5". long. 1 1 5" 51 ' 40", var. 241/4 E. 
Mr. Tyrrell states that there is now a 
village of Shuswap Indians about opposite 
where the old fort stood. At this fort 
Thompson spent the winter, trading with 
the Indians, and taking meteorological and 
astronomical observations. 

"In April, 1 808, he continued his explora- 
tion toward the south, and finally reached 
the source of the Columbia in Upper 
Columbia Lake. This notable achievement 
was but an incident to Thompson. From 
the head of the lake he could see the waters 
of another great river flowing turbulently 
to the south, and made up his mind to 
follow it. The canoes were carried over the 
intervening flat terrace to the banks of 
McGillivray's River (Kootenay). This 
portage, which Thompson also named after 
his friend McGillivray, is marked on his 
map as two m iles; Dr. G. M. Dawson says 
about a mile and half. A canal now connects 
the two great rivers at this point." 
That is the canal that gives to this end of 
the valley the name of Canal Flats. The 
original object of this canal, be it known. 

because of^a story'which is to follow, was not 
for transport. It was made by Mr. Baillie 
Grohman, in our own days, with a view to 
overcoming floodings on his land by spring 
freshets of the Kootenay River (he having 
secured a concession of 48.000 acres there), by 
deflecting through it part of these Kootenay 
River floods into Columbia Lake. The 
Dominion Government forbade an open 
channel such as he proposed to dig. but allow- 
ed him to dig a locked canal to equalise the 
difference in height of the two rivers. Later 
the Provincial Government, fearing lest in 
exceptionallly high spate the gates might be 
carried away and the Columbia Valley thus 
flooded, ordered that the canal be closed. 
Nature has further seen to that, silting, filling, 
and putting all in order again. 

Once there came all the way here jp the 
Kootenay River from the United States at 
Bonner's Ferry, a highly capable river- 
steamer captain, on a worthy river-steamer 
His aim was to get through, by aid of Baillie 
Grohman's canal, to Windermere with his 
vessel and use it there for the transport of ore 
from the famous Paradise Mine. Successfully 
he negotiated the lower reaches of the 
Kootenay and came churning north, evading 
snag and rock. Lay not the charge of incom- 
petence against him when you hear that, on 
coming to the canal, he found that his steam- 
boat was both too long and too broad for it. 
He had known it might be so, but had 
"chanced it." It was the only steamer he 
could secure at Bonner's Ferry, where the 
notion came to him to make this attempt. So 
here he was at the canal, only to find he was 
"out" both by breadth and length. What 
was to be done ? The chief owner of the Para- 
dise Mine arrived on the scene and had a 
suggestion. Why not take the store of ore- 
bags, fill them with sand, dump them smartly 
into the canal to cause a flood, and then run 
the steamboat on upon that flood ? The 
owner of the Paradise Mine was an engineer 
by profession. There was an element of 
chance here too, but it was worth trying. So 
the men all fell to work, filling the ore sacks 
with sand and stacking them up near by. 
When all were ready they were speedily flung 
into the canal's end. The water rose. The 
steamboat floated clear and swam on into the 

Page Fifteen 


cut. All went well till, at the end lock, she 
stuck. It looked as though the water had 
come to Its height, so the captain shouted for 
all the coal-oil cans to be brought on deck 
Speedily they were emptied, all the oil poured 
on the wooden baulks of the lock and a match 
set to It. Up blazed the gates and burned 
wildly. They charred down; and the water 
swirled over them. The steamer tossed up. 
She lifted. She floated clear. Up in the pilot- 
house, the skipper pulled the whistle-rope in 
exultation. Just in time! The flames sizzled 
down: the flood took the sand-filled ore sacks 
and thrust them aside; once again the water 
subsided; but the boat was through. Waking 
the echoes with rejoicing hoots of the siren 
she churned on. She had got through from 
the Kootenay to the Columbia. Necessity is 
the mother of invention. In the wilderness, 
even with a steam-boat, scarce a menace but 
can be overcome by quick wit and steady 

Hearing this story we go gliding on past a 
broad valley ranch where the corn stands 
breast-high, and wheel on to a cluster of log 
houses known as Canal Flats, after the region. 
There the driver of the car from "The Valley" 
prop>er has to listen to the praise of another 
valley. A powerful sun-tanned man steinding 
in a flower-garden before the door of his solid 
cabin tells of a recent trip up the valley of 
White River — "over there," and he points to 
a draw of the mountains east and south. 

"There's a fine trail over there clear up to 
Turquoise Lake; and I tell you that lake is 
well named. It is just like a big turquoise 
dropped down up there among the tall timber. 
And game! The grouse were drumming 
round us all the way up. After we struck our 
first camp we rode right up to a herd of elk. 
Beauties! And before noon we saw three big 
grizzlies. If you want big game with a rifle 
or a camera you just go up White River to 
Turquoise Lake." 

Weill The Lake Windermere Camp is the 
outfitting place for that too. But how they 
love their land, these westerners! Every draw 
of the Valley is best to the man who lives in it. 

Up this White River, two days' journey by 
saddle-horse, there is a cabin where a certain 
English millionaire lived for two years. He 
had with him no firearms, only field glasses 

and cameras. For these two years he tarried 
there just watching the lives of elk and bear, 
beaver and blue bird, redheaded woodpecker 
and humming-bird, si ov/-bird and ptarmigan. 
Then he came down me day to Canal Flats, 
but not for supplies, came down with all his 
kit and horses. He had come to say good-bye. 
He was going back to England. He had 
dreamt a dream true. He had lived with 
Nature through the four seasons and then, 
because the experience was good, had done it 
again, turned the one year of vacation into 

Route No. 9. — To Golden. Return distance; 
60 miles. Indicated in Black. 

The road to Golden is the sad way home — 
unless, that is. you go out by the Southward 
train to the Crow's Nest Pass (or by horses 
through the mountains!); out by Golden is 
the average way. Perhaps you may choose to 
take it by auto inste; d of by train. It is hard 
to go; hard to leave awakenings in the 
little cabin; the reflected light from the lake- 
ripples dancing on the ceiling through the 
netted window-space; the laughing call of the 
loon sweeping down lo the water, our matins 
there; the chatter of the kingfisher going past 
in switchback flight as we took our morning 
plunge. We go up the path through the little 
grove of firs to the central house, seeing for 
the last time there the squirrels run up and 
down the stems. There is a feeling in us 
recalling these youthful days when holidays 
were over and school days imminent. We 
partake of the peaches or the prunes, the 
cream of wheat or the rolled oats, the omelette 
or the ham and eggs, the coffee or the tea 
with a lump in the chest — a lump that is not 
of indigestion. We pass out to the gable-end 
where the car waits, feeling that every step 
breaks a cord, viewless cords strangely 
holding us. 

Godfrey Vine, sitting at the big steering 
wheel, glances at our faces, reads our regret, 
and sympathetically does not speak. There 
is just: 



Then we are whisked away with a wave of 
a handkerchief, and the lump that was in the 
chest makes an attjempt to rise into the 

throat; and for some the lake is a moment 
blurred, and the Rockies to east, and the 
Selkirks to west, are fuzzed out, although no 
faintest cloud has really fallen across them. 
Well, it cannot be all holiday. We spin 
through Invermere and there's Fisher at his 
door — he who printed our souvenir photo- 
graphs — and Pitts, at his door, is talking to 
an Indian, looking at a pair of moccasins held 
out to him. They give us a wave as we pass 
We sweep on and down past the depot, and 
dash through Athelmer. And there ahead is 
a string of pack-ponies with riders in attend- 
ance. We recognize the back of Madeline, the 
"horse-wrangler. " We see ahead the "big 
four" hat of Walter Nixon (that meant as 
much to us as a bishop's mitre on the trails), 
and his lithe rider's back swaying easily 
above his stock saddle. Beyond the bridge 
the string of pack-horses turns aside to right 
and uphill in a small gulch. We know the 
significance of the pack and saddle-horses. 
Nixon is riding off to some place arranged in 
the hills, there to await other travellers who 
will follow by car after a later breakfast. He 
reins in at the trail-end to see all the ponies 
go past. We rush on. Will he see us? He 
does. We wave and cry: "So-long! " and the 
big cow-puncher hat waves to us. We look 
back and have a vision on the retina sure as 
the photographs on our sensitive plates. It is 
this: the haunches of Nixon's own peppy 
riding horse, the swing of its tail, his hand 
going up to thrust aside an overhanging 
branch as he rides out of the full sunlight into 
the dappled shade and light of that sandy 
draw. For him: the trails with the names we 
have come to love: Tegart's Pass, Fish Lakes, 
White's Camp, Horse Thief Creek. Kootenay 
Valley. Cross River. Palliser River, even far 
Kananaskis. For us: back to the desk. 

We are chirring past the Shuswap Reserve 
before we are well aware. We drop the 
Hoodoos of Sinclair Creek behind. The long 
ranges of Selkirk and Rocky waver by on 
either hand. We seize all the beauty desper- 
ately, going away (so that even a poised blue 
dragon-fly is memorable), till, to the honk of 
our horn, turning a bend, there comes the 
reply of the mellow locomotive whistle, 
whistling for curves through the canyons on the 
main line of the C.P.R. towards Golden. 

Page Sixteen 



Atlanta Ga.— E. G. Chesbrough, Gen. Ast. Pass. Dept.. 49 N. Forsyth St- 

Boston Mass. — L. R. Hart, Gtn. Agt. Pass. Dcpt 405 Boylston St. 

Brandon Man. — R. Dawson, District Pass. Agt Smith Block 

Buffalo N.Y.— D. R. Kennedy, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept lf>0 Pearl St. 

Calgary Alta. — J. E. Proctor, District Pass. Agt C.P.R. Station 

Chicago 111.— T. J. Wall, Gen. Agt. Rail Traffic 140 South Clark St. 

Cincinnati Ohio — M. E. Malone, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 430 Walnut St. 

Cleveland Ohio— G. H. Griffin, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 1040 Prospect Ave. 

Detroit Mich.— G. G. McKay, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 1239 Griswold St. 

Duluth Minn. — David Bertie, Trav. Passenger Agt. . . .Soo Line Depot 

Edmonton Alta.— C. S. Fyfe, City Ticket Agent 10012 Jasper Ave. East 

Fort William.. Ont. — A. J. Boreham, City Passenger Agt 404 Victoria Ave. 

Halifax N.S.— J. D. Chipman, City Passenger Agt 117 Hollis St. 

Hamilton Ont. — A. Craig, City Passenger Agent Cor. King and James St. 

Havana Cuba — Santamario, y Ca., Passenger Agent San Ignacio 18. 

Juneau Alaska — J. L. McClosky, Agent. 

Kansas City. . . Mo. — R. G. Norris, City Pass'r Agt. .601 Railway Exchange Bldg. 
Ketchikan. . Alaska — F. E. Ryus, Agent. 

Kingston Ont. — F. Conway, City Passenger Agent ... 180 Wellington St. 

Kingston. . .Jamaica — George and Branday, Agents. 

London Ont. — H. J. McCallum, City Passenger Agent 161 Dundas St. 

Los Angeles Cal.— W. Mcllroy, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept. . 605 South Spring St. 

Mexico City,.. .Mex. — H. E. Bourchicr, General Agent P.O. Box 1477 

Milwaukee Wis. — F. T. Sansom, City Passenger Agent. . . .68 Wisconsin St. 

Minneapolis. .Minn. — H. M. Tait, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 611 2nd Ave. South 

Montreal Que. /R. G. Amiot, District Pass. Agent Windsor Station 

IF. C. Lydon, City Pass. Agent 141 St. James St. 

Moosejaw Sask. — A. C. Harris, Ticket Agent Canadian Pacific Station 

Nelson B.C.— J. S. Carter, District Pass. Agent Baker & Ward St. 

New York N.Y.— F. R. Perry, Gen. Agt. Rail. Traffic. .Madison Ave. at 44th St. 

North Bay Ont.— L. O. Tremblay, District Pass. Agt 87 Main Street W. 

Ottawa Ont.— J. A. McGill, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 83 Sparks St. 

Philadelphia. . .Pa.— R. C. Clayton, City Pass. Agt Locust St. at 15th 

Pittsburgh Pa. — C. L. Williams, Gen. Agent Pass. Dept. . . .340 Sixth Ave. 

Portland Ore.— W. H. Deacon, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 55 Third St. 

Prince Rupert. .B.C. — W. C. Orchard, General Agent. 

Quebec Que. — C. A. Langevin, City Pass. Agent Palais Station 

Regina Sask. — G. D. Brophy, District Pass. Agent Canadian Pacific Station 

St. John N.B. — G. B. Burpee, District Pass. Agent 40 King St. 

St. Louis Mo. — E. L. Sheehan, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 420 Locust St. 

St. Paul Minn.— B. E. Smeed, Gen. Agt. Soo Line Robert & Fourth St. 

San Francisco. . Cal. — F. L. Nason, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 675 Market St. 

Saskatoon Sask. — W. E. Lovelock, City Pass. Agent 115 Second Ave. 

SaultSte. MarieOnt. — .1. O. Johnston, City Pass. Agent. 

Seattle Wash.— E. F. L. Sturdee, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept. . .608 Second Ave. 

Sherbrooke Que. — A. Metivier, City Pass. Agt 74 Wellington St. 

Skagway Alaska — L. H. Johnston, Agent. 

Spokane Wash. — E. L. Cardie, Traffic Mgr. Spokane International Ry. 

Tacoma Wash. — D. C. O'Keefe, City Passenger Agent 1113 Pacific Ave. 

Toronto Ont. — Wm. Fulton, Dist. Passenger Agt. .Canadian Pacific Bldg. 

Vancouver B.C. — F. H. Daly, City Passenger Agt. .434 Hastings St. West 

Victoria B.C. — L. D. Chetham, City Passenger Agent. . 1102 Government St. 

Washington D.C. — C. E. Phelps, City Passenger Agent . .1419 New York Ave. 

Winnipeg Man. — J. W. Dawson, Dist. Passenger Agent.. Main and Portage 


Antwerp. ... Belgium — .\. L. Rawlinson 25 Quai Jordaens 

Belfast Ireland— Wm. McCalla 41 Victoria St. 

Birmingham. . Eng. — W. T. Treadaway 4 Victoria Square 

Bristol Eng. — A. S. Ray 18 St. Augustine's Parade 

Brussels. . . Belgium — C. De Mey 98 Blvd. Adolphe-Max 

Glasgow . . Scotland— W. Stewart 25 Bothwell St. 

Hamburg .. Gcrman.v — Carl Flugge Gansemarkt 3 

Liverpool Eng. — Thos. McNeil, General Agent Pier Head 

(H. G. Dring, European Passenger Mgr. 62-65 Charing Cross 
W. Baird, Asst. European Passenger Mgr. S. W. I. 

G. Saxon Jones, City Agent 103 Leadenhall St. E.G. 3 

Manchester. .. Eng. — J. W. Maine 31 Mosley Street 

Paris France — A. V. Clark 7 Rue Scribe 

Rotterdam .Holland — J. Springett Coolsingel No. 42 

Southampton. .Eng. — J. H. Webb Can. Pac. Railway Bldg., 7 Canute Road"' 


Hong Kong. . China — T. R. Percy, Gen'l Agt. Pass. Dept. 

Kobe Japan — A. M. Parker, Passenger Agent 1 Bund. 

Manila P.I — J. R. Shaw, Agent 14-16 Calle David, Roxas Bldg. 

Shanghai China — A. H. Tessier, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept . Palace Hotel Bldg. 

Yokohama Japan — G. E. Costello, Gen Agt. Pass. Dept 14 Bund 


Adelaide S..\. — Macdonald, Hamilton & Co. 

Auckland N.Z. — Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.) 

Brisbane Qd. — Macdonald, Hamilton & Co. 

Dunedin N.Z.— Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.) 

Fremantie W.A. — Macdonald, Hamilton & Co. 

Honolulu T.H — Theo. H. Davics & Co. 

Melbourne Vic— Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.), Thos. Cook & Son. 

Perth W.A. — Macdonald, Hamilton & Co. 

Suva Fiji — Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.) 

Sydney N.S.W.— Unioi. S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.) 

Wellington N.Z.— Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.)